The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

It hasn't rained in a hundred days, it's hotter than Beelzebub's oven, and the ground is harder than a castiron skillet. The good folks of Ebb, Nebraska, could surely use a miracle. Lifelong residents are fleeing, and the town is on the verge of collapse. Wilma Porter, the plucky owner of the Come Again Bed and Breakfast, and her indomitable friends from the Quilting Circle need to do something to save Ebb, and fast. But short of praying for rain, there's little even the powerful Quilting Circle can do.

Enter Vernon L. Moore. The last time this mysterious traveling salesman came to stay at the Come Again B & B, he turned the town around in six days. When he left, he became a legend. Wilma and her friends have come to expect surprises from Mr. Moore, but this time they're stunned when he brings help: three widows from the town of Eden with pasts as enigmatic as his.

The Widows of Eden is an entertaining, inspiring novel about community, hope, and a new way of looking at the things that matter most.

Release date: June 17, 2008

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 307

Sample

Chapter 1

 

DUST BOWL DAYS

MY NAME IS WILMA PORTER. I own the Come Again Bed and Breakfast, which is the last of its kind in Ebb, Nebraska, and the only B & B in Hayes County that is listed in seventeen Internet directories. I have lived in rural America all my life, and I can tell you that it will bend a man’s back and try his spirit in the best of times, but last year’s growing season was the driest and most inhospitable in seven decades. On Thursday, July the sixth, smack in the middle of summer, the fire station recorded our one-hundredth consecutive day without a drop of rain. It was hotter than Beelzebub’s oven outside, even in the shade if you could find any, the soil was harder than a cast-iron skillet, and a thin layer of dust hung over the fields and roads like a gritty yellow fog. All the old people were talking about the “Dust Bowl” days over at the Corn Palace, and not like it was past history.

Clifford Yelm, a third-generation bean farmer and hog caller, got to worrying that Sunday because Rufus and Winnie Bowe weren’t at church, so he hopped in his pickup and drove over to their place to see what was going on. A withered old heifer was grazing on parched, dead grass in the front yard, which is a peculiar way to care for a lawn even in these parts, and the windows were wide open. Nobody answered the doorbell, so Clifford invited himself inside.

The house was as empty as a politician’s promise. The furniture and the rugs and the pictures were all gone, Rufus’s and Winnie’s clothes were missing, and the pantry and the refrigerator had been cleaned out. According to Clifford, it was eerily quiet. All he could hear were the drapes flapping in the breeze and the echoes of his footsteps on the hardwood floors. Under a gray, bone-dry dirt clod on the kitchen counter, he found a handwritten note that read:

To Whom It May Concern:

We couldn’t make a go of it any more. I am so sorry. We will miss you all. May God be with you. He wasn’t with us.

Winnie (and Rufus) Bowe

The bank started soliciting bids for the property from the usual out-of-state agricultural conglomerates two days later, which caused a huge commotion on Main Street. An amendment to the state constitution was supposed to prevent the sale of family farms to big corporations, but it turned out to have more loopholes than a cheap shag rug. The number of farming operations in Nebraska has dropped by twenty percent in the last two decades anyway, and every time we lose one, another rural business goes bust.

Clement Tucker, my fiancé and the richest man between Omaha and Oklahoma, could have stopped the sale of the Bowe place with a single telephone call, and it’s not like I didn’t ask a zillion times, but he was in no mood to discuss it — because he had just been diagnosed with skin cancer. A man of his age ought to­ have known better, but he refused to see Doc Wiley until I made him go. By then, the cancer had spread to his internal organs, and he was angrier than a wet cat about it, like it was somebody’s fault besides his own!

For those of you who may not be familiar with the history of Ebb, a mysterious traveling salesman named Vernon L. Moore appeared out of nowhere to save our bacon twice before, although there is an ongoing controversy about what he did or didn’t do. I had no idea how he could fix a drought, not to mention a deadly case of cancer, but I got down on my knees and begged the Lord to send him back for a third time anyway. Then I didn’t hear so much as a peep until two weeks later, at the town Starbucks, no less.

I was gossiping in a booth with my best friend, Loretta, and her daughter, Laverne, who is all of three-and-a-half years old and my perfect little goddaughter. Out of the blue, Laverne looked up from her chocolate milk and announced, “Daddy’s coming.” It was a plain, factual statement, like, “Mee-maw is on the phone,” or, “You left the light on in the kitchen.”

Loretta kissed her on the forehead. “Of course he is, darlin’. He went to Omaha for a business meeting, but he’ll be home by suppertime.” Last spring, Loretta married Calvin Millet. He is the chairman and majority owner of Millet’s Department Store, plus he manages the Tucker family trust for Clem now, so he travels nearly every week.

The child looked straight into her momma’s eyes. “Not that daddy, my other daddy. He’s coming.”

Laverne’s biological father, her namesake, and the love of Loretta’s life until she fell for Calvin, was none other than Vernon L. Moore. Laverne hadn’t seen him since the autumn before her second birthday, and for only a week at that. None of the rest of us had seen hide nor hair of him either, and we never spoke of him in her presence. In my simple, country girl’s mind, that raised a few questions.

“When?” Loretta asked with a puzzled look on her face. “When is your other daddy coming?”

My cell phone rang as Laverne was about to answer. I fished it out of the bottom of my pocketbook and said, “Wilma Porter speaking.”

From the other end I heard, “This is Dot Hrnicek, your friendly neighborhood sheriff. I just got a surprise call from the state police.” Besides being the top lawperson in Hayes County, Dottie is a good friend and the squarest, most manly-looking woman I’ve ever known.

“What kind of surprise?” I asked, a bit mystified by why she had phoned. I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes.

“Apparently, two of their cruisers are escorting a blue Ford Mustang down Interstate 80 at a high rate of speed. You’ll never guess who’s driving the Mustang.”

“Steve McQueen?”

“That would be hilarious except he’s deceased. Now, do you want to know who’s driving the Mustang, or not? I’ll give you a hint: his first name starts with ‘V’ and his last name starts with ‘M.’”

“It is not!”

“I can’t tell a lie, Wilma; I’m wearing the badge. He’s to have a late lunch with the colonel in Lincoln, and then he’ll be accompanied to the Hayes County line. I was told to expect him at four p.m.”

“Today?”

Loretta could read me like a book. She looked me in the eyes and mouthed, “Is it Vern?” I nodded in the affirmative and she went rigid, like she had lapsed into a catatonic state. That worried me some, and not just because of her medical history. As far as any of us knew, Mr. Moore was unaware of Lo’s matrimonial history, meaning her recent marriage to Calvin.

Dottie answered, “No, Wilma. They’re playing pocket pool in Panama till Thursday. Cowboy up, girl. I assume you’ve got his room ready.”

“Uh huh,” I lied.

“Stick a six-pack in the fridge when you’re done making it up. I’ll be over just as soon as I finish the day’s paperwork.”

“You’ll be … ?”

“I know you’ve got first dibs, Wilma, but we have a history, your Mr. Moore and me. I have some questions for that man.”

I squeezed the cheek of my sweet little goddaughter and replied, “Don’t we all, sweetie pie. Don’t we all.”

Chapter 2

 

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

LORETTA WAS AS STIFF as an Indian totem pole for so long that I began to contemplate my options: 9-1-1, CPR, a bucket of ice water over the head, a poke in the ribs with one of those flimsy wooden swizzle sticks you get at Starbucks. I was leaning toward the ice water when she turned to me and said, “When is Vern supposed to arrive?”

“I was told to expect him at four. Unless he’s changed into somebody else, I’ll get a peck on the cheek and he’ll be on your doorstep by 4:02.”

“Uh uh! That’s a problem. I’ll need to warn my husband first.”

“Warn Calvin? How come? He knows all about you and Mr. Moore.”

“He’s a good man, Wilma, but he’s just a man. He’ll need to be reassured.”

Truer words were never spoken. “How much reassurance time do you think you’ll need?” I asked.

“Cal doesn’t get home until six, if that. Can you keep a leash on Vern till eight?”

“Eight? How in the world … ?”

“Feed him. Tell him what’s happened in the two years since he last saw his child. Tie him to the bedpost if you have to; just keep him busy until eight o’clock.”

As if we needed to be reminded, Laverne repeated, “Daddy’s coming, Mommy.” I wouldn’t say she was giddy. Laverne is never giddy, but I could tell she was excited.

I put my hand over Lo’s again. “We’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

“No you aren’t, Wilma. You can’t be. Vern will change things when he comes, but we have no idea what he’s going to change, do we?”

“We don’t for a fact, but I have my hopes. I hope he spends some quality time with his daughter and his friends, I hope he can save Clement from cancer, and I hope he can make it rain. After that, his time is his own.”

Loretta smiled. “I’m glad to see that your expectations are in check, darlin’. While you’re at it, why not ask for world peace? We could use some of that, too.”

“Mock me at your own risk, Lo. Mr. Moore has a track rec­ord. You should know that better than anybody.”

“My other daddy’s coming, Mommy. Can we go now?”

Laverne was right; it was time to go. I said my good-byes and set off on foot, but I had forgotten to wear my panama hat so there was nothing between me and the searing summer sun except dry, dusty air. I measured my gait and stayed in the shade as much as I could, but I was perspiring like a pipe fitter by the time I got home.

The Come Again Bed and Breakfast is a three-story, turreted Victorian that was built by Silas Tucker the Second a few years after the Civil War. Five generations later, I bought the place from Clem Tucker, the seventh in a direct line stretching back to Silas the First, after he determined that he didn’t need nine bedrooms and seven bathrooms all to himself. Between you, me, and the fencepost, I believe that Silas the Second was giving him the willies, too. Silas is an infrequent ghost, but he has been haunting the place since he died of consumption in 1887.

A few years after I turned the house into a B & B, Clem’s older sister, Clara, moved out of a sanatorium in Lincoln and into the entire third floor of the Come Again, which I had renovated per her instructions. Clara is a twice-widowed, sixty-odd recluse who likes to exercise, play cards with my grandson Mark, and watch old movies and TV shows. She’s not exactly talkative either. Other than the first time Mr. Moore came to town, she hasn’t uttered a word except “yes” and “no” since the Bee Gees had a hit record.

As soon I let myself in, I went straight to my den to check my voicemail. That turned out to be an error. I had messages from Lulu Tiller, Hail Mary Wade, Lily Park Pickett, and half the other women in town. It was all for the same reason, of course: they had gotten word that Mr. Moore was coming to Ebb and they knew he would be staying with me at the Come Again.

I have an admission to make: my left ear is as flat as a pancake because there is hardly anything I would rather do than gossip with my friends on the telephone; but I had a higher calling that afternoon. I went upstairs to remake Mr. Moore’s bed, and then I vacuumed and dusted his room, washed out his sink and tub, and made sure he had fresh towels, soap, and toilet paper. After I was satisfied that everything was in tip-top condition, I went downstairs to the parlor and sat by the window. I don’t know why, but I just wanted to sit still for a minute.

The house was as silent as an empty church. It was so peaceful and calm that I started to doze off — something I never do at church, thank you very much — when the gosh-darned phone rang! I nearly had a heart attack, which is the number one killer of women in America. I grabbed the handset by the neck and practically shrieked, “What?”

Luckily, it was only Dottie. Without a word of lead-in, she said, “Is he there yet?”

“Don’t you know? I figured you’d have sentries posted across the county line.”

“I do, but I thought he might’ve snuck by us.”

“It’s barely three-thirty, Dot. He’s probably still on his way.”

“Maybe, but will you call me when he arrives; just to make sure?”

“If you’ll do the same. Are you still coming over tonight?”

“Does a brown bear shit in the woods? Of course I am.”

“Can you stay for dinner?”

“What’re we havin’?”

“I don’t have a clue, Dot. I’m making this up as I go along. Get here early, okay?”

“Early? How come? Are you expecting a disturbance? Except when he’s saving my town from vicious evildoers, that Vernon Moore of yours is a bundle of trouble and strife.” Dottie was referring to Mr. Moore’s last visit to Ebb, when he managed to rid the county of a dangerous religious sect in his spare time.

“Loretta needs time to prepare Calvin. Your job will be to keep Mr. Moore occupied until eight o’clock. Get here as soon as you can.”

“No problem, Wilma. I’m good at keeping people occupied. I carry a sidearm.”

“You’re a dear, Dot,” I declared, and rang off.

The Come Again is as cool as a mausoleum, even in the heat of summer, but little beads of perspiration began to appear on my forehead. Another woman in my age bracket might’ve blamed “the change,” but I knew that my body was reacting naturally to the pressure of a no-warning dinner party. Considering the quality of the company, store-bought pot pies were out of the question, and it was too late to put in a roast, so I took some meatball marinara sauce out of the freezer to thaw and threw together a four-bean salad with vinaigrette dressing. When that was done, I went into the dining room to set dinner for three on my best china and flatware. The linens I chose were a wedding gift from my dear departed Aunt Delphie, who was a suffragette in her youth and later became wealthy the old-fashioned way: via alimony. At the reception following my wedding to Al, my ex, she whispered in my ear, “Love, honor, and obey, Wilma, and keep detailed records.” I should have listened, but my ears were plugged with love.

After the table was set, I zipped into the kitchen and happened to glance at the wall clock. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. It was 4:05, but there had been no knock at my door, and I hadn’t heard a peep from Dottie either.

Mr. Moore had slipped past Dot’s patrol cars, just like she had feared, but he had knocked on a door other than my own. I blame myself. Mr. Moore believes that uncertainty is the spice of life. I should have expected nothing less.

LORETTA TOLD ME later that she knew who it was the instant her doorbell rang. Apparently, so did Laverne. She jumped up from her little red reading chair in the library and sprinted to the front door. When Loretta caught up, Mr. Moore was on one knee in the foyer, giving Laverne the kind of hug a sailor gives his child after years at sea.

He has crinkly blue eyes and dove-white hair, but his age is a matter of debate. He is not a big man either, but he is fit and straight as a rail. On that day, he was dressed in a gray, pinstriped business suit, a light-blue shirt with a starched white collar, a burgundy-colored tie, and zillion-dollar black shoes polished to a high sheen. According to Loretta, he was as cool as a cucumber, as if he was immune to the heat.

She stopped at a safe distance. “Welcome back, Vern. Somebody missed you.”

Mr. Moore stood up and wiped a speck of dust from his knee, then he looked into Lo’s eyes and remarked, “When we first met, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, but you’re even more beautiful now. Are you well? Are you healed?”

Two years ago, Loretta was beaten so badly that she lapsed into a coma and eventually died, but Mr. Moore called in a lightning bolt that brought her back to life. I know what you’re thinking, but I was standing outside her hospital room when he did it. It was unmistakable.

Lo took a step backward. “I’m well, thanks to you, and married. To Calvin Millet. We sent you an invitation. Did you get it?” She held out her hand so that Mr. Moore could see the ring, which was a two-carat solitaire that had once belonged to Calvin’s mother.

“I couldn’t come, Lo. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t make it.”

“Why not? If not for me, then for Lovey and Cal. He feels like he owes you a great debt. It almost kept him from proposing. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

Laverne, who is three and a half going on thirty-five, said, “That’s okay, Daddy. Mommy isn’t mad; she’s just frusterated.”

“And she has every right to be, sweetheart. But I’m here now and I want you to tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been gone.”

Laverne looked up at her mother, who said, “Wilma is expecting you for dinner, Vern. Perhaps you can come back later; say eight o’clock?”

“That would be fine. Thank you.”

Mr. Moore picked up his daughter and hugged her again. She whispered in his ear, “Can I ax you something?”

“You bet.”

“I could tell that you were coming, but Mommy and Mee-maw couldn’t. How come?”

“That’s a very good question. I’ll make sure you get an answer; maybe not tonight, but before the end of the week. Is that okay?”

Like most of the women in Ebb, Loretta has a finely tuned sense of hearing. “Her mother has a few questions, too. Do you suppose you can fit her into your busy schedule?”

Mr. Moore put his daughter down for the second time. “Why not tonight? If at all possible, Calvin should be with you. People are coming.”

“People are coming? Here?”

“With your indulgence, yes.”

“With my indulgence?”

Mr. Moore stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You sound like an echo, Lo. Relax. It’ll be interesting.”

“Interesting?”

He put his finger on her lips ever so lightly, then he left without another word.

A BLUE FORD MUSTANG rumbled into my parking lot not three minutes later. It was a low-slung, fast-looking affair with fancy chrome wheels, but the poor thing was waist-high in dust, as if it had forded a stream of medium beige blush-on. Through the parlor window, I watched Mr. Moore retrieve a large, roller-style suitcase from the hatch and pull it across the lot to my porte-cochere. Before he could knock, I yanked the door open, grabbed him around the neck, and wailed, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Moore. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Clem is so sick. He’s on death’s doorstep.”

I was just warming up, but my sobs were drowned out by a police siren, and then a county sheriff’s cruiser came screaming around the bend with red-white-and-blue cherry poppers flash-dancing across its roof. Two shakes later, Dottie Hrnicek pulled under my porte-cochere with an ear-splitting screech. She shut the tumult off, thank God, and then she got out of the car and walked purposely up to my doorway, where she declared, “Vernon Moore, you are under arrest.” Then she looked at me and added, “What the hell’s wrong with you, Wilma?”

I was slack-mouthed, but Mr. Moore acted like he had been in that sort of fix before. “Who dropped the dime on me, Sheriff?”

“How many folks in Ebb drive a three-hundred-horse Mustang with custom wheels and Ohio plates? I got half a dozen calls.” Dottie checked her watch. “What I’d like to know is how you got past my deputies …”

“Your deputies?”

“I got a tip from the state police that you were coming. They were posted at the county line.”

“Oh, sorry. I took a detour through Nebraska City to see some friends. Perhaps your deputies weren’t expecting me to come in from the east.”

“Apparently not. I was just kidding about the arrest, by the way. You all can go back to hugging and crying now. I’ll see what’s cookin’ on the stove.”

She strode past us both with a big grin on her face and headed toward my kitchen. Once she was out of sight, my infrequent lodger inquired, “Is there room at the inn?”

Instead of answering like a grown-up woman, I started to cry again. Maybe it was “the change,” but I don’t believe it was.

Chapter 3

 

PAWNEE WISDOM

BY THE TIME I had dried my eyes and gotten back to the kitchen, Dot was nursing a bottle of cold beer at the table and reading the Lincoln paper. I was about to suggest that she make herself at home when the phone rang.

She was closer than I was, so she grabbed it and chatted for a minute, then she hung up and said, “That was Mary. Her nose is a little bent out of joint.”

Hail Mary Wade is the county attorney and the Queen Bee of the Quilting Circle, which has had the effect of making her nose double-jointed.

“Does she know that Mr. Moore is in … ?”

Dot held her hand up like a traffic cop. “Of course she does, but don’t worry yourself for a minute. She’s just got a bee under her bonnet, that’s all, a jealous little bee.”

The phone rang again and Dottie took a message. It was Dana Yelm, Clifford’s wife, who had also gotten the news of Mr. Moore’s arrival. She wanted to make sure that I told him about the drought and the Bowes’ disappearance, as if I needed a reminder. Two shakes later, I got a call from Billie Cater, who had the same identical concern.

When the telephone rang the fourth time, Dottie said, “For God’s sake, Wilma. Turn the damned thing off! If you don’t, we’ll never have a moment’s peace.”

The proprietor of a B & B cannot unplug the telephone. It’s in the manual. While I was putting it on auto-answer, I heard a faint, electronic rendition of “There Is No Place Like Nebraska” coming from another room.

“Goldarnit!” I exclaimed.

“Is that your cell phone?”

“It sure is.”

“Where is it?”

“On the settee in the den, inside my pocketbook.”

“You cook; I’ll shut it off.”

Dot was back at the table and into her second beer when Mr. Moore came down the kitchen stairs. His outfit — a white oxford shirt with a button-down collar, creased blue jeans, and running shoes — reminded me of what the hip boys wore at Hayes High in the sixties, when I was too young to have a boyfriend but old enough to have a fresh crush every week.

My brief reverie was interrupted by a peck on the cheek. “You must be the woman of the hour,” he said. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

Dot took a swig and replied, “It’s not us, hon. Everyone’s calling about you, and they’ve all got the same question I have. They want to know whose lives you plan to rearrange while you’re in Ebb.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry; that was the beer talking. Who do you plan to see this trip?”

“My daughter and her mother, Wilma, old friends. Why?”

“Why? The last time you blessed us with your presence, Mr. Vernon Moore, I had to run double shifts, call in reinforcements from Gage County on two separate occasions, fib about your whereabouts to the same state police who just bought you lunch, and coordinate an arson investigation with the fire dep. . .